


Icarus Wanted to Fuck the Sun

by Amber_Angel



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Icarus and Apollo, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, can i call this, it's like a 5+ but it's only 3, me saying i'm going to write smut and then backing out at the last minute, really bad angst though, that title though huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:23:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber_Angel/pseuds/Amber_Angel
Summary: “My Apollo.” Grantaire shut him up with a press of lips. “Will you stop talking poetry and have your way with me already?”The words dropped away for a moment, lost in the translation of contact as they kissed and Enjolras eased Grantaire to the mattress, hand cupping the back of his neck.“Does that make you Icarus, R?” The words, whispered into his mouth, sent a shiver running down his spine. “If I am Apollo? Do you burn your wax-made wings for a taste of me?”





	Icarus Wanted to Fuck the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved Les Miserables since I was twelve, can you believe I'm just now writing something for it?  
> The entire premise of this was based off of a Tumblr post saying that Icarus flew too high because he saw the sun (Apollo or Helios depending on what you read) and wanted to fuck him. I remembered that Grantaire referred to Enjolras as Apollo a lot in the book, and hence this fic was born. I did say I was actually going to write smut, but I chickened out so it's just a lot of buildup that doesn't really go anywhere. Maybe one day I'll bring myself to actually write smut, but today is not that day. Anyway, enjoy!

The first time was a burst of white light, spontaneous, unquestionable and infinite in the decisive confidence in which it was initiated. Planning a revolution was a passionate affair, but with no outlet. It took patience for plans to reach fruition, and while their golden leader was a patient man, even he had his limits. That rage, a constant factor in all his decisions, the factual existence of his rebellion was as much a part of him as the blood that ran through his veins, it boiled beneath the surface, warmed his skin with its intensity.

Grantaire could feel it in the hand that landed on his shoulder. It soothed and burned in all the best ways. He was a tiny bit tipsy- he always was, the endless monotony of the days blurring past always eventually drove him to the bottle- but he was not so far gone as to miss the furious touch of their leader, though he always did miss it as soon as it lifted. The drone of the meeting was a ringing, an afterthought compared to the forerunning voice of Enjolras. Every time that man spoke, everything else somehow faded into the background. When Apollo sang, the whole room stopped to listen.

The thought brought a laugh to Grantaire’s lips, and though he had the sense to know that he should keep quiet, it bubbled out of him anyway, filling the tiny sector of the room that he had confined himself to.

Enjolras leveled his gaze at Grantaire, and there was disappointment and anger and something deeply buried that Grantaire could not place. His eyes flashed. Nothing was allowed to intrude upon his love for his Patria, not even the laughter of a drunk in the back of a room. Especially not the laughter of a drunken Grantaire. No matter how deep he was into his bottle he was still expected to meet a standard of refinement, and while he jutted his chin out in a silent rejection, he waited to do it until Enjolras's back was turned. Enjolras had a constant angry aura about him, but it wasn't anger, not really. It was more defiance, a refusal to play with the lot he had been given, a natural urge to revolution. It was the thing that most qualified him for leadership of their little rebellion club. But none of them had ever seen him in a true state of anger. Grantaire was not about to break that record.

When the meeting ended, Enjolras's temper seemed to have finally boiled over, coming to a head. It really had been simmering for quite a while, but something about that night simply broke the last straw. He planted himself very deliberately in front of Grantaire’s seat and refused to move as the other attendees trickled out one by one. Some passed sympathetic glances in his direction, others shook their heads or snickered.

“My dear Enjolras,” Grantaire drawled, chair tipped back against one wall, feet crossed casually on the table, “you seem to be blocking my way.”

Enjolras’s lips quirked upward, a dangerous smile. “And what do you intend to do about it?”

Grantaire set the bottle on the table and let his feet drop to the floor. They thudded heavily against the wood. He settled back and closed his eyes.

“I don’t intend to do anything. Sooner or later, you’ll move, and I have the advantage of the chair.”

“Do you?” There was irritation in every syllable, and something else, something that wound its way into Grantaire’s chest and squeezed, poking at his heart to prompt a faster beat. There seemed to be a war going on in that voice- in that head- of two emotions of the same element vying for control. Grantaire could tell without looking that one of those two was anger.

He thought that maybe anger had won when rough hands grasped his wrists and pulled him from his chair, but the lips that crashed into his smugly informed him that he was wrong. An arm wound its way around his waist, and one hand stayed at his wrist, encircling it with a much lighter grip, thumb resting against skin. A groan escaped him, lost in the quiet pleasure of the moment, and then he was surging forward and he realized that it had to have been passion that had won out in Enjolras's mind because he was meeting it with equal levels. He had no idea where it was coming from, but Enjolras's affection was as hot as the rest of him, and there was no way he was going to let go of this kind of offering.

They broke apart panting, and Enjolras led him by the wrist to the door.

“I want to take you home,” he said frankly, voice rough.

“Shame,” Grantaire smirked. “After that lively display I thought for a moment we were going to have sex.”

“Your mouth is too smart for your own good.”

“Maybe, but I think you'll love what I can do with it.”

******

The second time, they fell urgently to the bed, shedding vests and shirts with a haphazard carelessness as Enjolras murmured under his breath, a strange haziness in his eyes. It worried Grantaire as much as it excited him. Never had he seen that beautiful sculpture look so fazed. There was a flush in his cheeks and bright abandon on his face that, for once, had nothing to do with revolution.

He pressed his forehead to Grantaire’s, eyes lidded, and whispered, “Lock eyes with me so I can see into your soul. Press your lips against mine so I know your taste. Lay naked with me so I know your insecurities. Sing a song to me so I know the tune of your heart.”

(Poem source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poems/love/passionate/)

“My Apollo.” Grantaire shut him up with a press of lips. “Will you stop talking poetry and have your way with me already?”

The words dropped away for a moment, lost in the translation of contact as they kissed and Enjolras eased Grantaire to the mattress, hand cupping the back of his neck.

“Does that make you Icarus, R?” The words, whispered into his mouth, sent a shiver running down his spine. “If I am Apollo? Do you burn your wax-made wings for a taste of me?”

“If that were the case, would I really let you prattle on so? Icarus drank his fill before he fell, after all, and you insist on raging words instead of simmering touch. Burn softly, love, just once, for me.”

“If the sun were to burn softly, humanity would freeze at the tips.”

“Mm, I don’t care about humanity right now. The meeting is over, Patria is at the door and the locks are fastened.”

“Oh? If not humanity, what do you care about?”

Grantaire laughed, tracing the soft bottom of Enjolras’s lip with his thumb. “What do you think I care about?”

“The bottle.”

“A distraction.”

His sun sat back, that angry fervor roaring back in half the time it took to fade to its softer counterpart- the latter of which Grantaire was quickly becoming fond of.

“The revolution.”

“A ploy, dear heart.” Enjolras’s eyes were scolding. “Don’t look that way. You’ve been sure of my disinterest for quite a while, don’t glare as though I’ve surprised you.”

A body settled over his hips and Enjolras’s hand pressed to his chest, gentle but firm.

“So then tell me what you care about, R.”

He placed a hand on Enjolras’s arm, ran one finger over the curve of his bicep. The pressure of Enjolras against him was exhilarating, hot, and everywhere their skin touched, Grantaire felt as though he was scorching.

“You really can’t tell?” He guided Enjolras’s stupid, pretty, confused face down and kissed him once more. If he was going to burn, he wanted his whole body to go up in flames. He wanted every inch of his skin to blister with this man’s touch. “You’ve so much passion, Enjolras, but you lack the ability to recognize it in others.”

“Then show me what yours looks like.”

*****

The third time, Grantaire wasn't surprised by the irritation on Enjolras's face when he found him on the steps of one of the bordering buildings, head resting heavily against the doorframe, bottle in hand. He shook off the hands that tried to help him to his feet. There was a jerkiness about his movements, as though he were already drunk, and he saw disapproval in the pressed line of Enjolras's mouth.

“Let me sleep here,” he said softly. He found that he could not raise his voice above a whisper. The tightness in his throat, the shakiness of his hands threatened a trembling voice, and the one thing he never wanted to show Enjolras was the fact that he was afraid.

“Go sleep somewhere else!” Enjolras retorted, crossing his arms. “That frame won't take very kindly to your neck. It'll be sore tomorrow.”

“Ah, but not if I am killed. Death is the one cure for all purposes, you know.”

Warmth kissed his skin as Enjolras took his hand and pried the bottle from it. It was unopened.

“You're not utilizing your distraction,” he noted.

“Maybe a different distraction would be more appropriate tonight.”

“Grantaire…”

“Apollo. If this is our last night, I want to spend it with you. Drink with me.” He extended a hand for the bottle, but Enjolras placed it down well out of reach and moved to sit beside him on the step.

“You sound so certain of the fact that you will die.”

“We all die.” Grantaire’s eyes slid shut. “But me? I know tomorrow will be my day, and so tonight I plan to drink myself to hell as I hope for entrance to heaven.”

“You doubt them?” Enjolras gestured to the men scattered along the expanse of the barricade, most asleep, some staring up at the stars.

“I doubt myself, Enjolras, and I doubt that if worse comes to worst I will have the strength- or the will- to do what is right. If tomorrow passes and I live, I think I'll die anyway.” Neither of them seemed to be able to mention the looming finality that the thought of tomorrow promised. It was as though they had agreed that one way or another, tomorrow would be the last day that they would spend on this barricade.

There was silence, and then a hand slipping into his, fingers slotting between each other. A body leaned against him and he quickly transferred his head from the doorframe to Enjolras's shoulder.

“I think your problem, Grantaire,” Enjolras said gently, “is that you are incapable of belief.”

“Of belief?”

“Of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death.”

“Kind of you to say, but you're wrong.” Grantaire laughed. “All life is capable of death, and it was very close but I _was_ alive. I will give you thoughts. I will give you will. But life and death I claim.”

“And belief?”

“You will see.”

The third time, gentle and loving. The third time. And the last.

*****   
Four frightened men clustered in the centre of the room, and one coward sat tucked away with a hand across his mouth. The burst of noise and smoke rose as three of the five fell, bodies crumpling bonelessly to the floor. Men climbed the stairs and lowered their rifle at the lone leader staring at his followers, his friends, dead and bleeding on the hard wood. Shock clouded his eyes, but he met the soldiers’ gazes with the same fierce resistance that he had carried all his life.

Grantaire couldn't. He couldn't move, he couldn't think. He had no way, but staring at the sun through the bodies and the guns and his own fear he found the will to rise and stumble forward. Every other day his waltzing walk sprang from drunken courage, but the falter in his footsteps now were born of sober terror. Still he forced himself to move, past the blood and the soldiers and the bullets still unfired. He walked to Enjolras's side and took his hand and asked:

“Do you allow it?”

The faintest nod. He swallowed and turned to face the men. Enjolras raised the flag, the last defiant act of which he was capable. One last instance of passion. His hand shook, but he didn't falter.

Grantaire whispered, “My belief is in you.”

The shots rang out, and white pranced at the edge of his vision. A table corner jolted him in his descent to the floor, but everything, everything- even the hot wound in his chest- was shrouded in comparison to the sight of Enjolras, his sun, his Apollo, flinching backwards in the face of those smoking rifles, tilting, stumbling as the red spread across his shirt, so much more horrific for the red flag clutched in his fist. Stumbling. Falling. But that was wrong. Black overtook the white, the red, but Grantaire could only stare at the sight of his Apollo hanging in the window. Icarus had fallen, he had risen too high, burned in the heat of the sun. He had fallen, but he had done so alone.

Grantaire forced his eyes closed and despaired in the knowledge that in his falling, he had brought the sun down with him. 

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr is amber_angel, if you're interested in following me there!


End file.
